


Displacement

by idiotbrothers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Gore, Episode: s05e16 Dark Side of the Moon, Gen, Minor Character Death, Moral Ambiguity, Torturer Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 01:26:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1570883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idiotbrothers/pseuds/idiotbrothers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tag to "Dark Side of the Moon". Following the events of the episode, Dean decides to make good on his threat to Roy and Walt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Displacement

Dean doesn’t look at Sam once on their way out of town, but he can read his brother’s tense posture in his periphery, can feel how affected Sam was by his throwing away the amulet.  _Good_ , he thinks, a vicious stab of satisfaction cutting through his thoughts, and his hands tighten on the wheel, teeth grinding together on the red haze clouding his mind. He doesn’t know what has him the most worked up, Zachariah’s jeering taunts or Sam’s heaven or the whole  _absent god_  thing, but he feels like he needs to blow off steam before he takes a swing at the next thing within arm’s reach. Which, at the moment, happens to be Sam.

He’d forgotten about Roy and Walt until now, but he narrows his eyes as he suddenly remembers, the cold iron of his promise to them getting his heart pumping a little faster as he starts thinking through his options. Giving them what they deserve is sure to be more satisfying than snapping some fanged nobody’s neck, and he can’t wait to taste exhilaration in all the ways he’s gonna make them scream. “We’re turning around,” he grunts at Sam, jerking the wheel abruptly, eyes fixed on the empty road ahead, “There’s something I forgot to do.” Sam doesn’t answer.

* * *

 He finds them easily enough; they haven’t hightailed it out of town yet, probably working off the assumption that the Winchester brothers will stay dead for longer than a day. After depositing Sam in a different motel than the one they’d been staying at before, he’d taken off without a word, getting to work on scouring every inch of the place for any sign of the two hunters or what he remembered their car to look like. Sam had let him go without saying anything, shutting the bathroom door behind him just as Dean was leaving the motel room. Dean thinks that he’s probably supposed to be concerned, but he’s too angry to let himself focus on Sam at the moment, wants to find an easy outlet for his unceasing frustration and take his time using it as he likes. 

He tracks them down by following a meager couple of tips by some locals, making short work of locating their truck in front of a dive bar. The only hard part was putting on the friendly face for the pedestrians, because he’s so keyed up that he can’t quite unclench his grinding jaw. His detailed descriptions get the job done regardless, and the two tips he gets are more than enough for such a small town. Parking the impala out of sight, he grabs what he needs from the trunk and settles in the shadows framing the bar to wait for them. They come out approximately an hour later, exiting not three feet from where he’s hiding. He immediately notices that they’re drunk, lilting against each other a bit as they shuffle out to where they’d parked. 

Not wasting any more time, Dean steps out of the shadows and silently bears down on Walt while Roy’s opening the passenger seat at the other side of the truck. Within the space of a second, he smothers Walt’s mouth and nose with a liberally chloroformed rag, cutting off his yells before they can even start. Walt loses consciousness before he properly realizes the danger he’s in. Dean hears Roy’s pockets jingle as he paws at them in the dark, and he says, “Y’gave me the keys, idiot. Hang on, lemme toss ‘em to—” But Roy has better reflexes than his partner, and the easy cadence of his voice withers abruptly as he senses Dean behind him and swivels to face him. “Shit, you’re—we  _killed_  you,” he stammers, tripping backward and barely avoiding a fall.

Dean lunges at  him, and Roy seems to remember himself at the last second and pulls a knife on him. “Stay back,” he shouts, fumbling fingers stuttering over the hilt of his blade as he waves it around. Making use of his stack of advantages, Dean disarms Roy by knocking the wind out of him from behind, switching positions so quickly that Roy can’t keep up. The knife clatters to the asphalt and a startled cry is the last thing Roy manages before Dean knocks him out with a precise blow to the back of his head. Gathering their slackened bodies up and lugging them out to the impala, Dean squeezes them into the trunk and shuts it with a vehement thump, and then peels out of there and drives out to where he knows he’s going to finish the job. 

* * *

"Please," Walt stammers from where he’s strung up, hands tied together and stretched toward the low ceiling with a rough length of rope. "Please don’t do this, please, think of what Sam would—" Dean’s vision wavers for a second, and he can sense the anger boiling through his skin with such force that he feels lightheaded with it. He takes a step toward Walt, causing him to clamp his mouth shut and wince fearfully. "Don’t you fucking dare," Dean whispers under his breath, smoothing his thumb along the edge of the blade. He stands directly in front of Walt, moves in close enough that he can smell the stale beer and iron on his breath. He raises his voice. "Don’t you  _fucking dare_  say his name. You motherfuckers hate him, don’t you? You want his head on a plate, you think he’s  _evil_ , a freak.” Dean punctuates the sentence by wrenching Walt’s head up by his hair, forcing his watery gaze upward. 

"Tell me what you think of Sam," Dean commands, holding Roy’s bloodied knife to Walt’s throat with his other hand. Walt shudders, eyes flitting about crazily as he shakes under Dean’s hands. "I don’t, I…I’m 

s-sorry! We’re sorry, we didn’t mean it, we’ll never touch him again. Please, please—” Dean swiftly stabs the knife into Walt’s lower torso, making him scream bloody murder even though he should be saving his voice for the main event. Dean twists the hilt of the blade as Walt’s struggles push it in deeper, and he’s openly crying now, tears coursing down his cheeks and a very noticeable wetness spreading over the crotch of his jeans.

"Tell me what you think of Sam," Dean repeats calmly, "And cut the bullshit, unless you want me to take my time making you look like your friend there." He nods to Roy, who is limply suspended behind them with oozing slashes gouged across his body and chunks of him missing, the faint flicker of his breathing the only thing indicating that he’s still alive. Walt flinches violently and shakes his head as he speaks in a low, hysterical voice. "He’s, he’s disgusting. He’s all wrong, you should’ve k-killed him yourself a long time ago. Please—" "Keep going," Dean growls, pulling the knife out of Walt’s side with a loud squelching noise. He gasps and jerks but continues to speak, and Dean turns away from him and slaps Roy awake, curling his lip as his eyes flutter blearily open. "I didn’t tell you to stop, did I?" Dean throws over his shoulder to Walt, whose quiet tirade had halted at Dean’s redirection. 

"Why’re you doing this?" Roy slurs, twisting his hands in their crimson-soaked restraints. Dean smiles at him, grabs his right hand and leisurely starts to saw off another of his fingers. Roy doesn’t scream anymore, just screws his eyes shut and pants harshly. "What kind of a stupid question is that?" 

* * *

As he’s carefully carving out Walt’s kidney, Dean tries to make conversation. He might as well; he has nobody else to talk to, and his mind is whirling with unresolved, disjointed thoughts despite the blood coating his skin all the way up to his elbows. “He doesn’t care about me,” Dean informs Walt, who only has one eye open and whose mouth is slack and drooling. “None of his best memories had me in them, can you believe that? He doesn’t need me like I need him. He probably never did.” Walt twitches in response, and Dean drops his kidney into the bucket at his feet with a wet thump. 

Dean turns to Roy’s head, severed and garishly mounted on the pitchfork he’d found outside earlier. “You see my point, don’t you?” He laughs at his own joke, wiping the sweat from his brow with a bloody forearm. He can feel wetness dripping down his temples but he doesn’t bother to clean it off.  _Time to end this_ , Dean thinks to himself. Though he’s far from finished with Walt, he’s left Sam alone for going on five hours now, and he doesn’t want his brother to think that he took off for good. Dean pulls out the gun that he hasn’t used once tonight and levels it at Walt’s face, ignoring the unmistakeable look of sheer relief on the pathetic hunter’s face in lieu of splattering his brains across the back wall. Tucking the gun into the waistband of his pants, he wipes a gore-streaked hand across his equally filthy shirt and takes out his cellphone. He calls Sam’s number, but it goes to voicemail, so he leaves him a terse message telling him he’s going to be back soon. He then turns his attention back to the dismembered parts littering the floor and the blood and viscera underfoot. It’s going to be a bitch to clean up.

* * *

"Sam? You awake?" He calls as he steps across the threshold of their dark motel room, shutting the door behind him. It’s too quiet, and both beds are unoccupied, and Dean is sick with worry for a string of stifling seconds before Sam shows himself. Dean can see him staring at the dried blood on his clothes, caked under his fingernails, in his hair. It had been useless to try to get it all out, so Dean had given up, gunning for the motel after he’d disposed of Walt and Roy’s every last fleshy piece. "Where’d you go?" Sam asks in a nearly inaudible voice, crossing his arms protectively over the flimsy cotton of his sleep shirt. Dean avoids his eyes. "I was…running an errand. Taking out the trash. We were too caught up before to focus on this town’s  _pest control_  problem, but I took care of it.” He can tell Sam doesn’t entirely believe him, but he lets it slide, taking Dean by surprise when he comes over to check him for injuries.

"Stop that," Dean snaps, catching one of Sam’s wandering wrists with his fingers. Sam swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as they stand frozen in place, wary gazes locked on one another. It’s Sam who breaks the spell, slipping his hand from Dean’s loose grip and going over to rummage in his duffel for something. When he comes back, he has something concealed in his tight fist, and he presses it into Dean’s palm without looking. It’s the amulet. Dean’s vocal cords feel suddenly weak, but he chokes out, "I’m…I’m sorry," and Sam just nods, trails a hand down the back of Dean’s neck once before turning away and climbing into bed. Dean wants to get in with him, but he doesn’t. He spends a restless night in his own bed, rubbing dazedly at the edges of the amulet and picking at the blood crusted over his skin. 


End file.
